009; Haunts [Multi-Chaptered; Part I]
Title: Haunts
Author: phobiaplague
Chapters: 1/??
Genre: Comedy/Thriller/Suspense/Drama
Warnings: None
Rating: PG-R
Summary: Toshiro works as a spirit medium, and is paid rather handsomely. However, when Rune shows up, his troubles are only just beginning, and things in the spirit world turn out to not always be quite as black and white as he first thought.
The lighting was dim--the sort of absence of light that one thinks about when the term "murk" is used. A quiet, colorless hush. The clouds hung a lackluster gray--not so much the color sharp with the shadows and scent of rain, but instead that bloodless, uninteresting pale the sky turns just after a thunderstorm--not quite gray, but too dusky to be called 'white,' either. The faint, musical notes of wind chimes, brass bell-shapes gone reddish-orange with rust and age, hanging on a twisted braid of rope, rang once, quietly, The porch's ceiling itself was littered with simple rice paper, bold characters and symbols marching down the pale fronts, bright red tassels hanging from their bottoms, and they swayed now and then in the breeze.
The building looked oddly out of place for it's location--in the thick of Ginza, it's faded stonework front and awkwardly swelling windows forming modest window seats and sun rooms nothing short of an eyesore for most. To make matters worse, the building was comically squat--pressed between two towering business offices with sleek, modern fronts of polished steel and broad glass panes that reflected both sunrise and sunset in a dazzling, multi-framed array. The little building was the unspoken embarrassment of both office complexes--their carefully laid and expansive parking decks with grim, orderly white lines and symmetrically trimmed shrubs--never a branch higher than the rest--and flowerbed, (never a tendril straying over the beige stone border) only serving to enhance the disaster of the building's wild tangle of weed-choked grass and swarming flowerbed that spilled in vibrant colors all across the divider and sank pale green tendrils into the mortar of the building as they climbed.
It was a place that, by rights, looked like it ought to have some modest, cheerful wooden sign of some sort hanging from the awning. A place that seemed like it should, to all appearances, announce some curiosity or antique shop in overly flamboyant, cursive script, perhaps painted gold. Something to explain, what, exactly, it was doing there. And in truth, that was the real reason that created such sour looks and unease among the suit-and-tie crowd and their clients. That it was just there. A personal affront against their delicate sensibilities and hip, modern sense of architecture. But as far as they could tell, hardly anyone ever entered the building, and certainly no one ever came out. It was enough for them to petition to simply have the damn thing torn down.
But in fact, the building needed no sign. The clients it catered to--and in spite of all appearances, there was a fairly regular client turnover--business wasn't exactly booming, but then again, Toshiro would've been shocked if it was--knew exactly what services it offered. It was, all and all, a very specialized market. And if there was ever any doubt, well. All one had to do was look for the cat in the window. That very same cat, at the moment, was not in the window, however. Instead, he was reclining on a plush cushion of purple velvet tucked neatly on the windowseat of the dining room, presiding over the room with an imperious gaze.
The lace white curtains that hung over each broadly paned window had been let down, allowing only a watered-down trickle of pale gray light to filter in from outside. The long dining room table, a deep and rich sable with tints of pale red streaked throughout the whorls, cut out of walnut, was ablaze with lit candles. Pale, white affairs--everything from squat tealights to the crystal-like formation of Palm Wax, all flickering within candle holders of crimson and pale blue, casting a ghostly, fragmented pattern of blue diamonds and crimson squares on the table's surface. At the table's center, an incense holder burned, small, compact cones colored a pale red with gold tips smoldering quietly inside of the brass holder, blue-gray smoke streaming out of the patterns of stars and spades etched out of the sides. A sweet scent of clove and orange drifted throughout the room as the smoke filled it.
A tea service gleamed on a small silver tray, the teapot a lovely silver and cast in the shape of a reclining dragon, tail curled over it's back to form the handle, and the steam that seeped gently from the pot itself curling out of it's nostrils. Two china cups--a charming robin's egg blue with bone white handles stripped delicately in gold, their rims similarly coated in a thin layer of gold paint, with saucers to match, rested at the head of two chairs--one cup cold and untouched, and the other nearly finished.
The tea inside was a pale yellow--camomile. Meant to soothe and calm the nerves of the more easily distressed or emotional of his clients.
"It will be gardening season soon," came the sigh. "I wish you were here to see the garden this year. You always did make such a fuss over your roses. I always thought it was a little silly myself, but...they really are thriving this year."
The words were wistful.
An elderly woman sat to the side of the table, dressed plainly in a sundress of light green, her silver hair done up in a severe bun and secured with a dramatic tortishell butterfly clip. Thin, wire-framed glasses perched on her nose, secured by a thin gold chain connecting them from the corners. She was remarkably fashion-sensible, even for her age.
"I know, my dear. But I have no doubt that you're doing a lovely job with the garden this year yourself." There was a pause. "Ahh. So they're doing well, you said? I'm glad. I do miss my roses. Most of all, though. I miss gardening with you."
The voice that answered her was just as elderly--but it didn't suit the person across from her at all. A lanky youth sat in the chair to her left, his hair a rich black in color and hanging just past his shoulders in faint curls at the ends, skin an almost doll-like white. In fact, much about the man's appearance was delicate--the set of his lips, small and yet oddly full and a pale pink in color--the shape of his dark eyes that swept up at the corners like semicolons, and the thinness of his wrists. His fingers, long and tapered, rested on the table in front of him, though he faced the woman he spoke to. He hardly looked a day past his twenties, and yet the voice that came from him was that of an old man's.
The woman smiled at him, eyes crinkling with a mixture of affection and a bittersweet emotion as she slid over one veined and wrinkled hand to rest on top of his.
"Yes, dear. I know. But do let me tell you about the new neighbors across the way and their dreadful cat..."
At this, a protesting meow sounded from the corner of the room, and she couldn't help but laugh.
"Oh, not you, Skellington. Of course not. You're a dear."
Seemingly satisfied by her response, the feline shifted on his pillow, tucking his white paws underneath his chest with a smug expression, pale blue eyes hooding as he resumed his nap.
"New neighbors? You mean the Endo's don't live there anymore?"
"No, dear. They moved away last winter when the last of their children went off to college."
And so the conversation went. By afternoon's end, the room had fallen silent once again, the candles so melted down that they had snuffed out, their wicks drowned in the wax. The youth sat silent in his chair, eyes at once going vacant and then slowly brightening again. He straightened in his chair, as if suddenly waking from a long nap. The old woman glanced down at her hands folded neatly in her nap for a moment, before sighing and gathering up her small purse.
"Well. That was nice. Thank you for the tea, Toshiro," she said as she stood up from her chair.
"It was a pleasure, Mrs. Yamasawa," Toshiro replied, standing up from his own chair as well and making his way over to her, his hand gently coming to rest at the small of her back as he guided her from the living room and into the hallway.
"Well, I suppose I'd better go and let you get your rest. I'll send you the usual amount in the morning."
"Yes, thank you. I'll see you again next week?"
"Of course."
"Okay. I'll put you down for Friday, then."
Mrs. Yamasawa nodded once and shot him an affectionate look before pulling open the door and stepping out. Toshiro shut the door behind her firmly, turning the lock until it gave a satisfying click, before pressing his back to it with a heavy sigh, his eyes shutting. He was exhausted. But that was nothing new. Channeling for any time longer than an hour always drained him, the strain of maintaining the connection while at the same time suppressing the aspects of himself taking it's toll on his body. When he Channeled, the spirits that temporarily entered his body had full control--and for the most part, were considerate enough to know when their allotted time was up. That wasn't to say that all of them wanted to leave, however. Or that it wasn't dangerous.
By this time, Skellington had awoken from his nap, and had wandered into the hallway, lazily twining around Toshiro's ankles, purring loudly. Toshiro cracked open an eye, lips quirking into a small smile of affection that softened his entire face before leaning down to pick him up, bundling him in his arms. The feline wasted no time into leaning into him, purrs vibrating through the thin material of his shirt. Toshiro's fingers curled under his chin as he scratched him absently, grinning a bit wider as Skellington's eyes shut and his neck stretched out in obvious pleasure.
He knew that Toshiro generally took hour long naps around this time--a perfect chance to curl up next to him and transfer a bit of warmth and energy into him while he slept inside of a mini coma. But no sooner had Toshiro closed the door than there came a knock.
"Ugh. I swear, if that old biddy wants me to kiss her old man goodnight for her, she'd better fuckin' toss another coupla zeros on the end of that check..."
Mrs. Yamasawa, however, was one of his oldest customers. She had been coming to him for over a year now, to speak with her dead husband, and as long as she kept the generous pay up, well, he didn't have much room to complain. Sighing, he ground his teeth lightly before unlocking the door once more and throwing it open.
"Did you need something el--" he began, only to falter to a stop, words petering out.
The person on the other side of the door was certainly not Mrs. Yamasawa. Instead, he was staring down at--quite literally--the man in front of him was a bit short in stature, a surly looking man who looked to be in his late twenties. His arms were folded stiffly across his chest as he stared up at Toshiro with an unreadable expression--if it was possible to look both annoyed and unreadable. He wore a light jacket of breathable material--dark in color, with sleeves that were large enough to be almost oversized--polished black buttons sewn neatly along their edges in a pair, the neck collar high and flaring. Beneath that was a plain t-shirt, and a nondescript pair of jeans. But his hands, Toshiro noticed with a pause, were gloved.
Not cheap cloth gloves, but the sleek black and slightly bumpy material of leather. Toshiro rose an eyebrow. He looked, more or less, like a disgruntled librarian gone rogue.
"...Can I help you?"
"I need to contact my boyfriend."
"Then use a payphone or contact the police. I can't help you."
"Yes. I think you can."
There was a sudden darker light to his eyes, and though his voice never rose and kept low and measured, even tempered, Toshiro couldn't help but feel the slightest of shivers race up his spine. Dude's probably trouble. Which is something I don't need.
"I only speak to..."
"The dead, I know. Why else do you think I'm here?"
"...Fine. Come in then, I guess."
The man's eyes settled on Skellington then, whose pale head was poked out from under Toshiro's arm, blue eyes locked on him intently. His eyebrow arched, and he smirked a bit. Toshiro, if he noticed the exchange at all, ignored it, and simply backed from the door, holding it open just long enough for the other man to slip inside before shutting it. Without a word, he made his way down the hall and into the dining room once again.
He set Skellington down on the table then, before turning to face the newcomer.
"Right. I need a name."
The man shrugged carelessly, as if he didn't particularly care about Toshiro's brusque behavior one way or the other.
"Mitsubishi Keiji."
"Gotcha. Also, before we begin, you should know I charge by the hour. Which..."
"I can afford it."
A pause.
"...Can get upwards of--"
"I said. I can afford it," the man repeated, voice level.
Toshiro blinked, before shrugging carelessly.
"Okay, then. Would you care for some tea?"
"No, thank you."
Toshiro paused, his hand already halfway reaching for the still-warm teapot, before shrugging and withdrawing his hand, reaching instead for the lighter and carefully making his way around the table, relighting each candle as he did so. Only when he was finished with this task did he move back to his seat, slowly sinking into it.
"Let's get started."